“You don’t play bad,” said a voice beside her.

She looked up. The man two seats down was not handsome, not in the way women are taught to fear or want. He was tall, lean, with shoulders slightly bent as if he had spent years stooping over engines or mistakes. He had dark hair, a smile that came in sideways as though still testing itself on the world, and brown eyes that seemed to look at people with curiosity rather than hunger. He wore a cheap plaid shirt, a worn jacket, and carried a guitar without a case, only a strap slung around it.

“I didn’t say I played good,” Nora answered.